Collide
by LSMunch
Summary: Epilogue now added. You guys always joked that we were the dynamic duo Lois and Clark, better than Batman and Robin.
1. Listen to Your Heart

Disclaimer: So, over the holidays, I sent Dick Wolf a really nice card, hoping to maybe get a piece of Munch that I could call my own, but... well I'm sure we all know how that turned out. He's still not mine.

Also, any songs used, titles, lyrics, none of it's mine and I'd just like to thank the people who sing those songs for giving me a bit of inspiration, because Munch knows I needed it.

A/N: So I've been working on this since about mid-June, 2005. It's gone through a lot of rewrites, revamps, rereads... all of that jazz. Been through a few betas (thank you Ink Cat and boredsvunut3. Love you guys!), a couple friends from school... maybe even a few more people, I can't rightly remember now. Point is, I worked really hard at this one, my first real chapter fic, and I hope you enjoy it. Sounds cheesy, I know, but we all want some recognition and praise now and then, right? Right, so here you go...

**Chapter 1: Listen to Your Heart**

_Listen to your heart_

_when he's calling for you_

_listen to your heart_

_there's nothing else you can do_

_I don't know where you're going_

_and I don't know why_

_but listen to your heart_

_before you tell him goodbye_

It's scary, watching somebody cry. Especially when you know that person. And definitely when that person is usually the strong one. The one who holds their emotions in check so perfectly. Never overreacting. It's scary when, in fact, you're the one who's almost lost it in front of them. You're the one who just barely held back the tears while she stood there. Now thinking about it, you probably scared her, too. And in this job, you can't do that a lot. Even when the case is horrible and all you want to do is cry, you don't. You can't. What would the victims think? What would your coworkers think? You'd be the laughing stock of your peers and highly doubted by the people you're supposed to be helping.

So when you climbed those stairs and opened that door the other day and saw her crying, you didn't know what to do. When a victim cries, it's so much easier. You're on auto pilot. Moving and acting like the book told you to. But now, it's her. And you've never been in this situation before. You've never seen anyone in your squad cry. Maybe come a bit close to it, but never actually crying. Tears running down their face like they're running down hers now. And you wish she would stop because they're making you uncomfortable, but you think maybe she needs you. Maybe this strong woman needs a shoulder to lean on.

But shouldn't it be her partner? Shouldn't it be the man, the person, she's closest to? The one she's seen more than anyone else in her life for the past six years? But he's not here now. He's not here to comfort her and you know it might be him who's the root of her pain. Her partner might be the one who's broken her heart. You think quickly of where he might be then decide she might need you to be here. She might need you to talk to, if she feels like. She might need you to lean on, if she can't stand. She might need you to wipe away her tears, if he's not there.

So you walk out onto the roof, hoping she won't mind your intrusion. Hoping she'll see it as what it's meant to be. A friend here to comfort a friend. Someone to help her get back up. And when she looks up, you see the brief fear mingled with anger in her eyes. Then she puts her head back down, muttering for you to go away. You should've known she'd react this way. She's stubborn and secretive. Like you. She doesn't want to burden others with her pain, either that or she's too proud to let others know she suffers. But you've seen it before, just not like this.

You walk over to the bench where she's sitting, thinking it's not that comfortable to be crying on. It's hard and rough and you know a couch or bed would be more comfortable. God knows you've gone through all of them, alone of course. You'd never let anyone see you break down. Never let anyone see your weak side. The side that's haunted by your own past and the faces of long gone victims. But this isn't about you tonight. Tonight, she needs you to be there for her, whether she's willing to admit it or not. She needs you to hold her and be with her just because. Not because you can feel her pain. Not because you can feel her anger, but because she needs you. Just to be.

And you sit beside her and talk softly to her. Just little things. About how you're there for her and if she needs you, you're there. And you don't really expect her to respond to you, and if she did, you think it would be to push you away. But instead, she's opening up and telling you what he did, telling you why she's crying, if it's easy to explain. You're surprised, but you listen, trying your best not to let the book get in the way. Trying to treat her like a friend, like a person and not a victim, though you secretly think she might be a victim. A victim to her partner's rage. Her partner's love. Her partner's problems. And the more she talks, the more you realize your thinking is correct, but you dare not tell her that. You dare not tell her what you think.

She stops talking and she stops crying. You want to wrap your arms around her and tell her it's okay. Tell her that when it's over, everything will be back to normal. But you know it isn't true, and she knows it too. So instead, you sit in silence with her. Watching her now steady breathing and thinking she doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve this pain and suffering. She deserves more. Much more. But if you told her that, that would be admitting what _you_ feel, and you're not ready for that challenge. You're not ready to bare your heart, your soul to her. Not yet. And you know it'll only cause her more pain and more problems. Because you know she'll want to let you down easy. She knows your marital history and how nothing has worked out for you. And she won't want to be the one to break your heart again. It's best just not to tell her and keep your heart relatively intact.

You're still sitting in silence with her. No tears, no words, just silence. At least, as quiet as it can get on a rooftop in the middle of New York City. And you're tired and you know she is too, and you start to wonder if you'll fall asleep right there on that bench. You almost hope you do because it would mean more time with her and you would rest assured she was okay. And if she wasn't you'd be right there beside her to make sure she will be okay. With time, she will be okay. And the closer you get to sleep, the closer you get to falling into the temporary dark of sleep, the idea of telling her is sounding better and better. Because for some reason, that dark that is sleep seems like it will be more permanent this time and you don't know why. You think you should panic, but the blackness is feeling warm around you instead of cold, like you always thought it would be. You hear muttering; a soft voice coming through the folds of time itself, it seems. Maybe you're just overtired, you try to convince yourself, but you like the voice.

You think it might be her, but she often visits you in dreams. Nothing new there. Feeling a sharp pain in your side, eyelids open and you realize you in fact fell asleep on the roof, though for how long, you don't know, and apparently she doesn't, and won't, either because it's _her_ elbow that's poking your side and _her_ head on your shoulder. You feel cramped like that, but you don't want to wake her. She's been through a lot tonight. She deserves these few moments of peace, so you quietly and slowly inch to a better position, hoping not to stir her much.

As you lean against the arm of the bench, legs stretched before you, you can't help but wonder what's led her this far. What's been her strength all these years. For her, every case must be hard and you wonder if anyone could ever live with that for long. You know you've been through a lot, but sometimes you think others really have it worse off than you. Those are your good days. When you realize you could have it a lot worse off. When you realize you're not one of those children that you see everyday. You're not one of the many women who come in and out. You can't be, but you could be one of those dead guys you find. The point is, you're not a victim like that. Sure, childhood was rough, but growing up is rough business and you've seen worse in this job. Lots worse.

And as you realize this, you feel her stir beside you and you hope that your movements didn't wake her. You look down on her face as her eyes open, watch her eyes search your face for something and you wonder what she could possibly find. What _anyone_ could possibly find. Usually, you're good at keeping your face straight. Often, people have told you that you have a good poker face, but you never paid them much attention. It's an expression born of secrecy and of being a cop. One born of desperation and need. And it works. Quite well actually and you know that only when things get through to your heart does the face break. Does the expression crumble. Does the mask crack.

She isn't moving, only her eyes and you wonder why. Why wouldn't she be getting up if she was awake? Does she realize she's leaning against you? Does she realize that she's fallen asleep like that? Certainly she must know, but she's not moving. Just her eyes, trying to read your eyes, your face. You hope that now, more than ever, the face will hold. The expression, the mask, will remain strong, but you feel them slowly disintegrating. Slowly, yes, but deteriorating all the same. Falling apart under her gaze and you always knew that it would happen eventually. You always knew she'd break through one day, whether on a case or for something else, you knew it was inevitable.

The idea of telling doesn't sound as good as it did right before you drifted off to sleep. Not near as good and to be frank, you're scared again. Does she see it in your eyes? Does she see what you feel for her? What you think of her? Does she see your fear? You hope not, but she's a cop, like you, taught to read emotions. Facial expressions, movements, the works. And for once, after all those interrogations you've seen her do, you hope that for some reason, her learnings from the book and the Job are frayed tonight. You hope that for some reason, they're not as sharp so you might sneak away, undetected. You know your chances are slim, but it's all you have right now. Her gaze holds you steady. That and the fact that she's still leaning against you. She's holding you there and you're not sure you want to leave. Not sure you don't want her to figure it out, suddenly. Not sure you don't want her to be leaning against you. Not sure that you don't want her.

"John."

It's like Zeus has hit you with one of his famed lightening bolts. The electricity that shoots through your veins is incredible and the fear that was just quieting down is roaring through you again, pulsing through you and pounding in your ears. You want to answer her and acknowledge her with words, but only a grunt comes out in reply.

"You didn't have to... you know." She's reluctant to say it, and you're eager to hear it, but you know you'll wait. She's worth it, and keeping your secret is as well.

"I know." You don't know if you should go on, though your heart tells you to. You've hardly ever listened to your heart. Maybe if you had, you'd be happily married, or at least happily single, instead of divorced too many times to remember. Instead of divorced too many times to forget. You wait for her to say something, but when nothing is forthcoming, "You needed... it." At the last second you change 'me' to 'it'. It's safer. Much safer.

She's still leaning against you. "Sometimes, I just don't get him. I know that it's gotta be hard, but--"

"You've no idea how hard," you mutter, interrupting her. You don't mean to, it just comes out.

"But," she continues despite your comment, "he takes it out at the wrong time at the wrong people. I'm here to help him, to work beside him, and sometimes, I just want to give him a piece of my mind. Tell him to get a grip. Over the stupidest things, he gets angry. I would help him if he would just ask. I can't just sit and watch him turn into something else. I can't." There are tears creeping into her voice and they spike new fear in you. She's not supposed to cry. She's supposed to be strong and hold herself up high. And now, she's about to cry for the second time tonight. It's breaking your heart, but you can't tell her that.

"He's gotta find himself, Olivia. Let me tell you, divorce really messes a person up, especially when you thought there was something there that isn't, at least not anymore. He thought his wife loved him and he thought he loved her. When something like that goes haywire, it messes up everything. You don't know what to do anymore. It's like your world is turned upside down and what you thought was right is wrong and vice versa. It's scary." You're amazed that you've just told her this. And that last bit, that amazes you the most. Because it's what you're feeling this minute and usually what you feel, stays yours.

"I know, it's just... " She pauses and you hope it isn't to cry. You hope it isn't to wipe away the tears. "You guys always joked that we were the dynamic duo; Lois and Clark, better than Batman and Robin and suddenly... I feel either thrown to the side or thrust into the spotlight. There's no medium anymore. It's confusing as hell and I can't help but put the blame on myself. If he wasn't at work so much, Kathy wouldn't have left him and he wouldn't be feeling so crappy. His world wouldn't be crumbling. He would get to live with his kids instead of seeing them when his wife lets him." She takes a shuddering breath and you're afraid of the tears still. "I should've told him to go home more. I could've been less a part of his life."

For the first time, you look away, unable to see her like this. Not knowing what to say. You almost wish you'd just turned around and went back downstairs. Went back to whatever the hell you needed to do. But instead, your goddamned curiosity got you landed here, and as much as you think you love her, that maybe you've made the wrong choice. At least your heart wouldn't have to see her like this and you could go on thinking she was the strongest woman you knew. You could go on thinking she'd never need you and you could be content just to watch her from afar. But now, being pushed up against her, you realize this love thing is harder than you ever expected. Maybe that's why it never worked out with the other women.

"John, why'd you come out here?"

"I thought we'd already established that point?" Your sarcasm has always been there to back up your mask. Your dry humor, and now is no different. It's there, like always. The one thing you can depend on.

"I've never known... this side of you." Her voice is soft and she seems unsure of how to word it at first, but what she says get's the point across to you. "No offense," she quickly adds.

"None taken." Now, how to tell her why she's seeing 'this side' of you. Why you're out on this roof, cramped up on a bench with her. Why you've listened to her and why you want to hold her. Why you've talked to her and why you want to kiss her. How to word that? You decide with what you hope will be the easy way out. "I'd do it for any of you."

"Not the Munch I know." She knows you well after all these years. Damn.

"Well, maybe I'm not playing Munch. Maybe I'm playing a different part tonight."

She's quiet at this, and so are you. You're surprised you let that much come out in two sentences. "I think I like this part almost as much as I love the Munch part."

You look down at her, shocked beyond belief. She didn't just say that about you, did she? She didn't just say what you're thinking about her? It can't be true; no one in their right minds would admit to such a thing. You're Munch. Hard and cynical and witty and... numb. Uncapable of love. Surely, this beautiful woman can't be saying that she's attracted to you. Not when she has Elliot Stabler as a partner. You're still asleep, you decide. Dreaming. This whole thing up on the roof is some wild figment of the imagination. A hallucination, a mirage. She can't care for you like that. It's impossible.

And she's looking back at you, no tears in her eyes, but something else. And it's not so much her eyes as her expression. It's not her mask, that's for sure. It's... open... and... inviting. Finally, she moves to a regular sitting position, still holding you in your seat with her eyes. It's scary but you know that it's finally come to a point where you can't hide anymore. Your face has broken. Your expression has crumbled. Your mask has cracked. It's all falling off. And for once, you're not sure you want a replacement, not now at least.

You're glad that your glasses are still firmly on your nose and ears, for if she could see _your_ eyes... You almost shudder at the thought. If she were to see your eyes, she would know. Everything. You wouldn't have anything to hide behind anymore. Maybe she's worth it though, you think. Maybe, for her, you can forgo the walls, forgo the hiding. But you know it isn't that simple. You know it'll take more than her to get through all the protections you've built up around everything. You want to let her in, but that feeling of keeping people out for so long is over powering and you hope she'll be able to fight it.

She takes your glasses off and places them on the side of the dirt filled stone planter behind you. Suddenly, she's torn away your last physical barrier and you don't know what to do. You're sitting somewhat sideways and so is she, facing each another. More like facing off, you think. You're still stunned and when you feel wetness on your eyes, you hope it's because of the wind that's just cut across the roof. You don't want to cry now. Not that you ever want to, but now... you don't want to scare her like she scared you. At the same time, you don't want to wipe your eyes because that would show you're feeling something more than sarcasm. You're feeling something more than the chill of night. You're feeling her... and something deeper.

"John?" Her soft, caring voice brings you from your thoughts, allowing you to register the fact that she's still sitting before you on the roof on that dumb bench with a stupid planter behind you and no glasses on and that damned city all around.

"No," you find yourself whispering. "No."

"No what, John?" You can tell you've confused her slightly, but that doesn't matter now. How are you supposed to tell her? Or will you? Or will she tell you something? Or will nothing be said? The questions float through your mind, your brain trying to process them all at once.

"You can't love... _me_. You... you can't." Stuttering is something you've never done, and the rare instances you have, you can count on one hand.

She sighs and turns away. "You know... forget it. I'm going back down." She starts to stand and your mind, and stomach, are doing weird flip things and you're so confused... before you know what you're doing, you're on your feet and holding her hand.

"Don't," you whisper. "Stay." It's time you pushed your past to the side, at least for now. She deserves that. If you love her, you can push your past away for her.

She sits back down and you hold on to her hand still, needing something solid to hold on to in the turmoil of your body. You notice the tears are back yet again and somehow, you're not as afraid as before. "What is it, John?" Her voice is tired and you can tell she's sick of crying and being emotional. It's how you feel after a rough case, or when you think of her.

"I... I..." You look away, disappointed in the fact that you're already stuttering. "I think I love you." You're surprised that, in the end, they come out so easy. Those words that you couldn't seem to get your mouth around just fell out, slipped and slid off your tongue. And you feel somewhat better. But you suddenly can't take it. She's going to reject you now, despite what she said earlier and you're going to be left on the side again. So you stand, reaching for your glasses, grasping them and putting them back on. The world is clear again and you start to walk away. You almost hope she'll call you back. Almost hope she'll stop you. But it's silent at her end and you make it all the way to the stairs. You don't look back because that would hurt to much. She hasn't said anything and you're going down the stairs.

You reach the landing and you know. She didn't stop you. She let you walk away.

She let you walk away.

And you swear, as you open the door to go onto the street, that you will ensure that it doesn't happen again. You can't live through it again.


	2. Losing My Touch

A/N: This chapter's about a page shorter than the first, but they're all going to be about this length. Oh, and shout out to Toby Keith. And again to Ink Cat and boredsvunut3. Love you guys. Seriously.

Special dedication to DS. For you. raises glass in toast

**Chapter 2: Losing My Touch**

_I've got good taste for blended whiskey_

_I can see my way around this bar_

_I can hear the sound of a vintage jukebox_

_And smell the smoke of a hand-rolled cigar_

_I can't read you mind_

_Baby I can sense this much_

_When it comes to your love_

_I feel like I'm losing my touch_

I stumble through the dark of my apartment, trying to find a lamp, a switch, anything. One would think I should know my way around my own apartment. Well, anyone who thinks that can shove it. I just want to get to bed, to sleep, even if it is troubled. Even if I only get an hour's worth. Because now, I don't want to think about what just happened. I don't want to think about what I just did and what she didn't do. I just want to wipe it away, get rid of it all and be able to start the day over. Sadly, as I stub my toe on something and curse into the dark, I know it'll never happen. I'll just have to deal with it, about as well as I've dealt with everything else in my life probably.

Finally, I find a switch and flip it, hoping it's the right one. Luckily, it is, and the sudden light near blinds me. Now I'm stumbling because of the light instead of searching for it. I wish love were as easy to find as light on a sunny day. Or even in this moment. Apparently, though, it lurks in the shadows, like those damned dust bunnies or whatever the hell you call them. Although, perhaps that's a bad example, considering how messy my small apartment can get. But, still, I wish it _were_ easier because then I wouldn't be in this goddamned situation with her. I wouldn't be this goddamned wound up. This goddamned sick and tired of all this crap.

I walk into the kitchen, trying to decide if I want a drink or not, whether I should get drunk over this and show up with a hangover at work tomorrow. Somehow, I resist the numbness of the bottle and wander back into the small living room that plays host to couch, TV and overflowing bookshelf. If there's one thing I have from my divorces, it's books. They wouldn't want those. Probably make them get a headache. And then I'd have to hear all that annoying whining. And, inevitably, the yelling would start about how I have too many books and not enough money and I should give her everything she wants, let alone needs. Then would come the headache, soon followed by the couch, or sometimes worse, the station house. I could never win those damn fights.

Collapsing on the couch I turn on the TV, hoping for something to take my mind away. I flip to some channel with a war movie on and let my eyes drift close to the sounds of guns going off and heavy artillery blasting and generals yelling. I don't care if I fall asleep to noise because the chances I will wake to something real, like the events of tonight, are less likely. Somehow, drifting off to the sounds of war makes my life seem much better than what those soldiers are going through and I get somewhat decent sleep.

When I wake, it's to the annoying ring of my cell phone and the sudden explosion of a mine on TV. There's no need to fumble in the dark, but I've no idea where the phone is, so I scramble around, trying to follow the sound which seems to be everywhere in the tiny room. Finally, I find it in my coat pocket and flip it open, answering with a tired tone. Sighing as I hear the information, I say, "Yeah, yeah. I'll be there in..." I check the stove clock. "... Fifteen minutes." There's the hurried telling of the apartment number and I close the phone, tossing it on the table and running a hand through my hair. It's only three twelve in the morning and I want to be asleep still. I go to turn off the TV, currently showing another war movie. Vietnam, by the looks of it. I shudder as I press the power button on the remote.

Quickly getting into fresh clothes (I had fallen asleep in the previous day's suit), I grab my car keys and thank God that it's working today. As I drive to the scene, there's nothing that's on my mind other than the thought of having to deal with another victim. "I really am getting too old for this job," I mutter to the empty car. Checking the hastily written address, I check the nearby street sign and see that I'm almost there. Sure enough, a minute later, flashing lights come into view and the lack of a bus tells me that the victim is on their way to the hospital, if not already there.

Parking and stepping out with a crack and a curse, I flash my badge at the uni at the door and look for the elevator. Noticing one, I walk towards it when a voice behind me says, "It's broken. You gotta use the stairs."

I freeze, knowing the voice immediately. I don't want to be near the owner of that voice right now, but I know I'll have to be. I turn and look at her, seeing nothing but a hardset expression set on her face. It's the mask she wears, the mask all of us wear and I feel mine slip down almost immediately as I see her. "Where's Stabler?"

"He's got the kids this weekend." It's a simple enough response. Her voice is almost devoid of emotion and I know that she's trying to ignore what happened earlier tonight. She's trying as hard as she can to not let her own life get in the way of the Job, something not always easily done.

I start climbing the stairs and she follows, the silence between us thick and filled with something I can't quite place. Probably guilt or fear or concentration, I can't say which. We reach the fourth floor and I'm tired already. For the second time in ten minutes I think to myself that I'm getting too old for this. She then steps ahead, leading me to the apartment, not that I couldn't have found it on my own. It's the only one with crime scene tape on the door and CSU techs swarming along with uniforms. But I know she didn't lead me because she thought I didn't know the way. She led me because she couldn't bear walking behind with me in her sight. I don't know how I know, but something in her walk, in her attitude, tells me.

"What do we got?" I'm finally able to say as she leads me through the apartment.

"Victim's Carol Erikson, twenty-three. Lives alone. She just got home when a man grabbed her from behind, pressed a knife to her neck and then he led her in here and raped her. Fin went to the hospital with her."

"She just got home?" I'm still stuck on that first part, my mind not fully awake yet at... I check my watch again... three thirty-four in the morning. "Do these perverts ever sleep?" I mutter more to myself than to her but she answers anyway, looking around the room instead of at me.

"I guess not."

I sigh and busy myself with the CSU guys, asking what they've got while still trying to shake myself into fully functioning consciousness. Slowly, as facts and tidbits of information seep into my sleep deprived brain, I'm able to ask intelligent questions and put myself entirely into the task at hand. But there's still that small part of my brain, not asleep, merely wandering, without making headway. I wince at the pun as I finally leave the scene at close to six, having to supervise the lifting of fingerprints and the unis.

On the way to the station house, I stop at some deli and get myself coffee and an egg sandwich. I'm not usually one for such things, but this morning I need something different and something strong, unlike my normal tea. When I finally walk into the squad room, I'm bombarded with ringing telephones and the Captain shouting something. Detectives are running everywhere and I turn to Fin, the closest person to me. "What the hell happened?"

"There were two other rapes last night, both in the same few blocks, all supposedly by the same guy. Grabs 'em from behind as they're coming home, pulls 'em in and rapes 'em."

"How's our first victim?"

"Still under at the hospital. They're gonna call us when she wakes up," Benson answers as she passes by.

"How about the other vics?"

"One's dead, the other's in the hospital, too."

"Munch, Benson!" The captain calls and I drop my breakfast, still in its paper bag, on my desk, setting my coffee next to it. "Get over to the hospital. Erikson's awake. Fin, get over to the other crime scene. See what they got."

We all leave quickly, knowing what's at stake here. It's the same thing that's at stake every day: lives, innocent lives, and as Benson and I climb into the sedan, her driving, me in the passenger seat, it somehow feels different. Somehow, something feels wrong, out of place, but I'm not sure yet what it is. The victims? No, haven't met them yet. The crime? No, I deal with it everyday. Doesn't change much, really. The suspect? No, don't have one yet.

"Munch, c'mon." We're at the hospital already and we walk in flashing our badges at the nurse and getting directions to Erikson's room. Quickly negotiating the hallways and going up the elevator a few floors, we get to her room, where everything seems to slow down. For once this hectic morning has decelerated, but I don't want it now. Not for this anyway. For just about anything but this.

"Carol? I'm Detective Benson and this is Detective Munch. Could you tell us what happened?" I'm glad Benson's taking charge. I don't have the heart to do it, not today anyway. Not after last night, I think, but push it away to a dark corner in my mind, to think about later, I tell myself. To ignore until later. Perhaps with a nice bottle of beer or other alcoholic beverage. Whatever happens to fit my mood. Whichever happens to dull the pain most efficiently.

"I was coming home from a friend's and I had just opened my door when someone grabbed me from behind and pulled me inside, closed the door behind him." She is reluctant to go further, something I, we, see day in and day out. It's nothing new.

"What happened next?" Benson is talking softly, trying to calm Carol. It's the voice she uses when dealing with victims. That's nothing new, either.

"He... he pulled me into my bedroom and he... he... "

"Go on. It's over now."

"He raped me." It's a whisper and Carol turns away, tears running down her cheeks. I sigh softly and leave, deciding I should find the doctor and find out what I can about Carol's injuries. Maybe part of the reason is to get away, to escape the pain that fills the air. I know Benson can handle it. Benson can handle anything. _Yeah, but you're not so sure Olivia can handle everything_, a voice tells me. I sternly tell it to shut up and ask the nurse at the nearest desk where I can find the doctor that worked on Carol Erikson. She points to a bearded man in a white coat coming down the hallway.

"Doctor, you examined Carol Erikson?"

"Uh, yes."

"What are her injuries?" Sometimes this part is easier than talking to the victim. For me, at least, I'm able to somewhat detach myself from her. It's just a broken arm, bruises, rape kits. But sometimes I can't because they're so beaten, I can't help but wince when the doctor tells me how the perp did something to further torture the victim. Sometimes, I downright want to throw up, though years on the Job stop me from spilling my lunch all over the hospital floor.

"Cut on the throat, not that deep. Bruising on her pelvis and thighs."

"Rape kit?"

"Negative for fluids."

"So the bastard used a condom. Great. Thank you," I add to the doctor and he walks away as I'm left to go back to the room. Luckily I'm saved from that hell only to be thrown into another as Benson walks up. I've decided, for the time being, to call her Benson. It's only calling her that that I can ignore what happened last night. Forget, temporarily at least, what she did to me. Briefly, I hope she's going through the same turmoil that I am. The thought is gone as quickly as it comes because I realize I could never wish pain upon her. Never could I wish anything bad against her. How could I even think of anything like that?

"What did the doctor say?"

I repeat what the doctor told me. Her reaction is like mine, as I expected it would be.

"Great."

"Did you get anything else from Carol?"

"No. She didn't see him and he didn't say anything. Only thing she remembers is the knife and that he was wearing a ski mask."

"Did he take anything?"

"Her virginity."

That simple statement ends the conversation and we head back to the car. Before we get there, though, my cell rings and I answer, Benson waiting a step ahead. When the Captain finishes, I sigh, curse, flip the phone shut and cram it into my pocket. "Gotta check on our other vic. She supposedly woke up not that long ago. While we were here actually."

I feel as if we turn around and suddenly it's a half hour earlier heading down the same hallway to ask where a victim is. In this moment, I feel as if none of this will ever end. None of this pain and torture will ever end. In this moment, the Job seems more pointless, more useless than it ever has, but I keep a straight face as we head for the room of Maribel Antonio.

After the same process we had gone through with Carol, we know the same amount of information in twice the time through twice the pain. I really need a new job, I think for the third time that morning as we finally make it back to the car. I half expect Cragen to call and have us check on something else, but we make it safely back to the squad room.

When I'm finally able to sit down at my desk, Fin tells me they got a match on a fingerprint in the dead victim's apartment. I half think that he's going to drag me out of my comfortable chair near the sweet smell of coffee, even if it is badly brewed, but he doesn't. Just tells me who the print belongs to and that they're trying to track the guy down now. He looks good for it, I think as I pull the guy's record over to my desk from Fin's. Assault, assault with a deadly weapon, statutory rape, and numerous other lesser charges.

It looks as though this might not be as bad at is seems. Might not be, until I glance over at Benson and see her hang up the phone, grabbing her keys from the desk, coat from her chair, as she bolts from the squad room.

Yeah.

Right.

Next joke.


	3. Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue

A/N: Again, big thanks to boredsvunut3 and Ink Cat. You guys... I just love you! Oh, and lyrics, again, thanks to Toby Keith. They're his, not mine.

**Chapter 3: Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue**

_Hey Uncle Sam put your name_

_At the top of his list_

_And the Statue of Liberty_

_Started shakin' her fist_

_And the eagle will fly_

_And there's gonna be hell_

_When you hear Mother Freedom _

_Start ringin' her bell_

_And it'll feel like the whole wide world_

_Is rainin' down on you_

_Yeah, brought to you _

_Courtesy of the red, white and blue  
_

I've finally gone and done it, I think as I collapse in the crib. I've finally screwed up the Job with my own life. And, for lack of a better word, it sucks. I can't look at her anymore without thinking about the other night. Can't look at her without remembering how she let me walk away.

After I sat with her and let her cry on my shoulder, she lets me walk away. Nothing. She didn't say a damned thing. Not one damned word, let alone my name. Nope, it's hopeless, not that I held much hope anyway. You can't live on hope, you'll die. And I've never lived my life on hope. Always found a way to mess it up on my own. And I've gone and done it again.

I barely close my eyes when she comes storming up the stairs, saying my name. Of course, not my first name. Just Munch. Like everyone else. Just Munch. As I get up, I bang my head on the bed and let fly a few colorful words before holding my hand to my forehead and following her as she says they've found the guy who matched the print in the one apartment. I grab my coat and we 'run' down to the car and get in, with her driving. I'm glad for it because I'd probably get into an accident. And to think, I used to be the eager beaver. Right.

As we pull up in front of some rich guy's brownstone, we both look up at it before climbing out of the car. I ring the doorbell and we're answered by a muffled, "Who is it?"

"Police," I shout. The door opens and we're met by a young woman, probably the maid.

"Yes?"

"We're looking for Douglas Warrington. Is he home?"

"Mr. Warrington is in the sitting room. He does not feel well."

"It's urgent that we speak to him. Could we come in?"

"Yes, all right." She opens the door wider and Benson and I step in. She keeps her eyes locked on the maid as we walk through the house, but my eyes wander around, looking at the art hanging on the walls and various other niceties that would never go in my apartment. That I could never afford, more like.

Our 'Mr. Warrington' is leaning back in a reclining chair, snoring. His chin is covered with a scraggly beard and he looks like he's been drunk. He's in an open striped bathrobe with boxers on and he's a sight for sore eyes.

"Mr. Warrington," the maid says as she shakes his shoulder. He groans and she shakes a little harder, saying his name again, louder. "Mr. Warrington, these police officers-" _Detectives,_ I think with a bit of resentment. _We're no uniforms._ "-need to speak with you."

He moans again and brings a hand up to his face, rubbing hard. I think, for some odd reason, that he's trying to rub off the scraggly beard and the dirt to somehow make himself seem like a nicer guy. "Yeah, what do you want?" he asks, opening one eye and staring at us.

"I'm Detective Munch and this is Detective Benson. We're investigating the rapes of three women last night. Do you know anything about that?"

"Does it look like I do?"

"Listen, we can do this here or we can take you for a nice ride down to our house."

"I was out all night, arright?"

"Where?" Benson asks, tone sharp.

"Friend's house."

"That's not specific enough. Come on," I latch onto his arm and Benson grabs the other. We haul him to his feet, while he groans at being pulled from his resting place. "Get some clothes on," I say and throw discarded garments at him. He moans as he pulls the t-shirt over his head after taking off the robe.

"Listen, I didn't do nothin'."

"So I guess you did do something."

"Huh?" he grunts out, halting the process of pulling his jeans on.

"Double negative. C'mon." He finishes pulling on his pants and buttoning them up and we get him in the car, but Warrington stays silent as we drive back to the precinct. This is gonna be one hell of an interrogation.

"So, where were you last night?" Benson asks from her seat at the table. Warrington's across from her, a cup of coffee in front of him, but he has yet to touch it.

"I told you, I was out."

"Where? You need to account for your whereabouts."

"At a party."

"Thought you said you were at a friend's house?"

"The party was at a friend's house. Why the hell am I here anyway?"

"We have evidence tying you to one of the crime scenes."

"Yeah, so?"

"So, that means you're looking pretty good for this. Two rapes and a rape/homicide. Don't think Daddy's money can buy you out of this, Doug." I pull his rap sheet over from where Benson has it in front of her. "You might have escaped with only a few years, combined, on your assault, assault with a deadly weapon. Oh, and look. Statutory rape. You like 'em young, eh, Dougie?"

"Bitch told me she was eighteen. If I'd've known she was jail bait I wouldn't'a done her."

"What about these assaults? Girlfriend says you hit her pretty hard. Had to go to the hospital. Then, you went and did it again. Went after her with-" I make a show of looking at the report. "-a hammer. Not too smart there, Doug. You should've known that if she turned you in once, she'd do it again."

"Stupid whore went and turned me in. I was just giving her a little payback."

"Oh, so now she deserved it?" Benson asks.

"Hell yeah! Bitch screwed me over."

"Did Elaina Simnowski screw you over too? Because, as far as we can tell, you don't have any connection to her. Why would you be in her apartment?"

"Friend of my father's. Some old bag whose dead husband served with my Dad."

"And you get off on raping old ladies? From one extreme to the other, eh, Dougie?"

"Are you fricken' kidding me? What the hell kind of sicko rapes old ladies?"

"Could be the kind I'm looking at," Benson says coolly as a knock on the glass tells us Cragen wants us. With Warrington shooting Benson a death glare, we leave, closing the door with a nice, satisfying slam and leaving Warrington to stare at the four walls.

"Fin just called. He was talking with Elaina Simnowski's daughter. She said that her father, Daniel, served in Vietnam. He died about a year ago from cancer."

"Even if Warrington is telling the truth about his father, he still didn't have a reason to be in her apartment. And what about our other vics?" Benson asks.

"You'll have to go talk to them."

Benson and I look at each other before going into the squad room and grabbing our coats and keys for the car. It's back to the hospital. And we'll probably split up and that means I'll have to see the pain in their eyes. Hear it in their voices. If there's one thing about this job I hate, it's the pain. To think, I thought Homicide was heart wrenching. Man, was I wrong. Dead wrong, if you'll excuse the pun.

This time when we get to the hospital, we don't ask for directions, but split up like I knew we would. Benson goes to Carol's room and I take Maribel. When I get to her room, there's two little kids in there with another woman. "Maribel? I'm Detective Munch. I'm working with Detective Benson on your case. Do you think we could talk in private?"

She nods. "My sister just brought over my sons. They wanted to see me."

As the sister ushers the two little boys out of the room, one stops and stares at me a moment before asking, "Are you a real cop?"

I smile. "Yes, I am."

"Do ya got a badge?"

I hold it out to him and he takes it gently, as if he might break it. His eyes are full of wonder as his small fingers run over the metal. Everyone in the room smiles and it's nice to see some small, and I mean nearly microscopic, joy in this horrible event.

"I wanna see it, too!" the other little boy suddenly whines and the sister chastises him about whining in front of the nice detective.

"That's all right. This won't take long," I assure the sister. To the little boys, "While I'm talking to your mom, you can hold my badge."

"Thank you," they say in almost perfect unison as the sister again tries to usher them out, also giving thanks.

A smile is still on my face as I turn to Maribel. "How old are they?"

"Brandon's ten and Nathan's six." She's quiet for a moment. "What else do you need to know?" She knows that the only reason I would come is information, but the surprising part is she offers it up.

"I need to know if you have any family in the military."

"My husband. He's in Iraq on his second tour. Why?"

"We think that whoever did this to you might be targeting women who are related to someone in the service."

"Why would they do such a thing?"

"We don't know yet, but we'll find out."

"Will my husband be okay?"

"Yes, he'll be fine. We think that they're just targeting the families."

"My boys... couldn't he hurt them too? Will he?"

"We don't know yet. As soon as we know anything for sure, I promise to call."

She reaches her hand towards mine and grasps it. "Please, Detective, keep them safe."

I look at her for a moment, silent. I hate making promises like this. They're the kind that you can never guarantee. They're promises not even gods can keep and when you make them, in those cases where you get too close, you feel so damn awful afterwards and the look on the faces of those you let down--"We will. I promise."

"Thank you. Thank you." She finally lets go of my hand. I give a small smile, trying to reassure her and she returns the gesture through tears.

Something shakes my brain a little after that, reminding me to ask the other questions I have. "Is there anyone who might have a grudge against your husband?"

"No, not that I can think of. His men love him; he's a lieutenant. I don't see how anyone could want to hurt us, just to get to him."

"Have you received any threatening phone calls lately? Anything out of the ordinary that might suggest anything like this?"

"No, it's been quiet. Just my usual day to day things."

"Okay, thank you, Maribel. If anything comes up, I'll call."

"Thank you, Detective," she says again and I leave. Brandon and Nathan are sitting on the floor by the doorway and I almost trip over them. Brandon immediately stands up, Nathan copying him.

"Here's your badge back, sir." Brandon holds out my badge, cradled gently in his small hands.

I take it, also gentle, but I don't put it back in my pocket just yet. The way he held it, so tenderly, touches me. "Thank you." I start to walk away when his voice calls out.

"Are you gonna help my mom?"

I stop and turn around to see him standing in the middle of the hallway. "Yes, I'm going to help her."

"So you're gonna find the man who hurt her?"

"Yes, I am."

"Well, when you do, could you tell him I hate him for what he did to my mom?"

I walk back the few steps and kneel down in front of him. I look into his eyes and see the anger there at what happened to his mom. "Tell you what, why don't you go in there and tell your mom you love her and I'll think about it. Deal?" I stick out my hand.

He looks somewhat saddened by this, as if he had hoped he would get to say it himself. "Deal," he says in a dejected voice and we shake on it. As I get up and walk away again, I'm heartened by Brandon's courage. Little does he know I'd like to slam Warrington's face into a wall for what he (_probably_, I remind myself) did. I meet up with Benson at the end of the hall and as we go, I turn and look back towards Maribel's room. Brandon is standing outside and he waves as we leave. I wave back and smile. When I turn back to Benson, she's suppressing a laugh.

"What?"

"Nothing," she says, still smiling, and we continue down the sterile hallway.

"Yeah, right." I let it hang in the air for a moment before, "What did Carol say?"

The smile is gone from her face and I'm sorry I had to ask. Her smile is so beautiful and I just- stop it, stop it, stop it, I belabor myself. You're going to drive yourself nuts, John. Pull it together. I argue with myself as she tells me something. Thoroughly slapping myself mentally, I ask her to repeat it.

"She said her boyfriend is in Iraq. He's supposed to come home next week."

"Nice welcome back present, huh?" It's a rhetorical question, we both know and there's silence for a few minutes as we climb into the car again.

"What about Maribel?"

"Her husband is on his second tour in Iraq."

"What I don't get is whether Warrington is targeting those who served in general, or those over in Iraq. Because so far, two out of three are in Iraq."

"Maybe we missed something with Elaina Simnowski. A son or something."

"Maybe." She doesn't sound convinced, though she does turn in the opposite direction of the station house. "Let's go see."

"Miss Simnowski, do you have any other family members that are in the military? Possibly Iraq?"

"No, no one. Why?"

"We think that whoever did this wants to hurt the families of those in the military." Benson shifts in her chair.

"Do you know a Douglas Warrington?" I ask.

"Sure. I know Robert Warrington, too. He served in Vietnam with my father. He and Mr. Warrington remained close friends after the war and my mother still talks... my mother still _talked_ with him after my father passed away last year." She stifles a sniffle. "I'm sorry. I just... I want you to get whoever did this to her."

"We will, Miss Simnowski. What was your feel of Douglas?"

"He was a stuck up rich kid. Always going to parties and getting in trouble, both with the law and his father."

"I take it you didn't like him." Why we say this, I've no idea, but it eases things a bit, I guess.

"No way." She looks at me, hard. "You know, you look familiar. Wait here a moment." Benson looks at me oddly as Cheryl Simnowski leaves the room. I shrug and probably look as confused as she feels. I've no idea how I could look familiar to Cheryl. Benson's gaze is broken by Cheryl's return with an old photo in her hand. "There." She points to a young man. Skinny, tall, broad shoulders, with a gun slung over one shoulder and he looks remarkably like-

"Is that you?" Benson asks in wonder.

"I think it is," I reply disbelievingly as I take the well worn black and white. I'm in uniform, and not the bag. It's the uniform I wore all those years ago when I served in a war that I strongly disagreed with. The war I protested in college. And here's this picture, forty years later, with me and a whole bunch of other young guys, still wet behind the ears, that I've long forgotten. Men who probably died beside me and I can't remember their names. "Would you mind if I took this?" I finally ask Cheryl.

She shrugs. "Sure, go ahead. Keep it if you want. I have others."

"Thanks," I mutter as I look back down at it incredulously.

"Did you know my father?"

"I don't remember anyone with the last name of Simnowski, no."

"Oh, that wasn't his last name. My mother kept her maiden name, for business purposes. My father's last name was Jessup."

I look at her quickly, hoping she might be lying. But no, her face is straight as ever, except for the few tears that still linger. "Danny Jessup?"

"Yes, that's him." She points again to another man standing not one person over from the younger me. Sure enough, old Danny's standing there, smiling that crazy ass smile he always had. Even when we were in the middle of the field, he still had that crazy ass smile. Even when he got shot in the leg and he had to spend a couple of weeks in that smelly old field hospital. We all wondered how he made it out of that damn war alive.

"We'll call you if we need anything else," Benson says and tugs on my sleeve. I look up. "That was Cragen-" Wait a minute, when did a phone ring? "-he wants us back down at the house."

"Thank you," I say again as we leave. I tuck the photo safely into my coat pocket and we climb back in the car. After all these years... I can never get rid of that damn war, can I? _No, Johnny, it'll always be with ya_, a voice says and I know it from somewhere, though from where I can't tell. _War does a funny thing to the mind, meddles with things you thought were wrong and tells you they're right. Like killin' a man. It ain't right, but in war, it's what you gotta do to keep yourself from bein' killed because you can sure as hell bet the other guy ain't gonna care. All that matters is stayin' alive. War teaches you that, burns it into ya head, and when the war's over, it's still there. Forget it, Johnny. Forget it now, or you'll never be the same. Forget it now, or you'll die like the rest of them. Forget it now, or you'll never make it out alive._

_Forget it now, Johnny._


	4. Still in Saigon

A/N: So... it's been a couple weeks... but besides that... Well, thanks to boredsvunut for doing a little betaing and special dedication to Ink Cat. You get the hell better soon, you hear? We need you around a bit more. Oh, and Charlie Daniels owns the song, and chapter title.

**Chapter 4: Still in Saigon**

All the sounds of long ago  
Will be forever in my head  
Mingled with the wounded cries  
And the silence of the dead

'Cause I'm still in Saigon  
Still in Saigon  
I am still in Saigon  
In my mind **  
**

"What did Antonio and Erikson say?" Cragen asks as we enter the squad room.

"Maribel's husband is in Iraq, second tour. Carol's boyfriend is also in Iraq," I respond as I gladly sit down at my desk. Fin's nowhere to be seen so I figure he's either in the crib or out.

"We also talked to Cheryl Simnowski again. She doesn't have any other family members in the military, just her father." Benson collapses into her chair, coat already draped on the back of it. She looks exhausted, and no wonder. She hasn't been up to the crib yet, except to get my old bones in gear.

"So, that means two out of three vics have family in Iraq. Then why Elaina?"

I offer up my opinion, based on the news of course. "If Warrington's got a thing against people in Iraq, perhaps he sees it as another Vietnam. People have started calling the War on Iraq the second Vietnam. All they have to do is reinstate the draft and they'll be right."

"Or maybe Warrington hated that his father served in Vietnam and still kept in contact with one of his old buddies."

"Well, Fin is talking to Warrington right now. Why don't you two go in and see." Cragen heads back to his office, closing the door behind him. Benson and I get up, both of us trying not to fall as we do so. We straighten up before entering the interrogation room then barge in, our entrance having the desired effect of making Warrington jump.

"Does your dad talk a lot about Vietnam?" Benson starts in right away.

"Yeah. Every other thing he talks about. Tellin' me how I should go join the Army. It'll make me a better man and shit like that. About how he served proudly and I should do the same."

"It is a noble cause," I say matter of factly.

"Like hell it is! My father's got two medals that sit on the damn mantle. Everytime I sit in that room I have to look at the damn things."

"What do you think about this War on Iraq?"

"Those pieces of shit fly planes into our buildings and kill our people. Hell no! We have every right to be over there kicking their ass."

"What about the fact that we've already got Hussein, we need oil, and Iraq just happens to have it?" I ask, leaning on the table now, looking over the tops of my glasses. Fin always hates that.

"Bullshit, man. We're over there making sure those crappy towel heads won't come back and do it again."

"Republican, eh, Dougie?"

"Yeah, so?"

I shake my head and leave the room, leaving Benson and Fin to tag team him. Walking around and into Cragen's office, I walk over to the window. "I don't think he's our guy, Cap."

"What, just because he's a Republican?"

"No. Not at all."

"Because he supports the war?"

"Not only that, but he hates the Iraqi people, not just the Taliban. Why would he rape the girlfriend of a soldier who's in Iraq? Why would he rape the wife of a lieutenant in Iraq, his second tour, no less? It doesn't fit, Cap."

"We can still hold him for a few more hours. Let's see what else we can find out and if not... back to square one." He turns back to the window and I watch for a moment longer before leaving to go in there.

"Excuse us," I say and Benson and Fin follow me out of the room. "I don't think he's our guy. Cap agrees with me. He said we'll hold him for a few more hours, see if we can get anything more, if not, we gotta let him go."

"Why isn't he our guy?"

"Think about it. He supports what we're doing over in Iraq. Why would he hurt some of the closest people to soldiers over there?" I look at them knowingly and they see my point. I mean, there are times when I wish I was wrong, and this is one of them. I'd love to throw this guy's ass in jail, but we just don't have the evidence. We all walk over to our desks, wondering what we should do now. Where should we look now? "Did you talk to Warner yet?"

"No. Maybe we should head over there." But none of us make a move to leave. I'm for some reason reminded of the day after Alex was 'killed'. We all sat there, not really doing anything, trying to fathom how it had happened. That was one hell of a day. One hell of a day I'd rather forget.

Suddenly, the phone on Fin's desk starts to ring and we all jump. "What?" he snaps and I snort which causes him to glare at me as he listens to the voice at the other end. "Sure. We'll be there in a few." He hangs up the phone and, still glaring at me, says, "Warner's got something."

I get up and so does Benson, but I stop her. "You haven't had a turn up in the crib yet. Go catch thirty. We'll wake you up when we get back," I suggest softly.

"Thanks." She starts walking up to the crib and I watch her as she goes before I hear Fin's annoyed voice yelling at me to get my skinny ass in gear.

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm comin'." I put my coat back on and head over to the elevator where he's waiting, none too patiently. As soon as I stand next to him, adjusting my coat, he pushes the down button.

"You walk slow," he informs me.

"For your information, I do not walk slow, I merely take my time. I'm enjoying the walk, not rushing about like everyone else." I look at him briefly over the top of my glasses, loving the annoyed glare that I'm met with.

"Yeah right, you old sack o' bones." He pushes the down button again, more forcefully than before.

"I prefer well-toned physique." That ends the banter as we enter the elevator. Normally, he'd keep going, but he stops and I think it might be because of the other people in the elevator. Usually, he keeps going, no matter whether there are strangers around or other detectives, and it's unnerving to see him stop. He loves a good banter as well as I, perhaps more if he sees a chance of winning. He seems to be thinking, so I leave him be, smelling the smoke fill the elevator.

"What's with you and Benson?" he asks out of nowhere as he starts the car.

"What do you mean 'what's with me and Benson?' We're partners on this one. Or have you missed that?"

"I'm not kidding around Munch," he says, annoyed. _Maybe I should just be straight with him_, I think, before quickly telling myself I can't do that. "I don't know... you've been acting weird around each other."

"Nothing's going on, Fin." I sigh, knowing that she wouldn't appreciate it if I told him what happened the other night.

"I won't tell anyone," he tries, knowing the look and sigh oh too well.

"She needed a shoulder to lean on the other night, all right? Can we leave it at that?"

"Did you..." he leaves the question open and hanging in the air. I swear, I could just smack him.

"No, we did not, Fin. I think sex crimes has gotten to your noggin there, pal." I tap my head with a finger, trying my best to divert the conversation. I hate when he gets nosy. Come to think of it, I hate it when _anyone_ gets nosy about my life, personal or otherwise. But then there's always the small reminders they care and they only want to help. Yeah. Right. Until they find some way to use it against me. Or until they feel like leaving me hanging. Swinging in the wind with nothing but my own words to haunt me. Like her. She left me to walk off that roof. I shouldn't have used the door to get off that roof, I think grimly, before my father steps into my thoughts. No, walking off the edge of that roof wouldn't have proved anything. Not a damn thing.

Pulling up alongside the M.E.'s building, we climb out and I prepare myself, as always, for the death. For the bodies resting in cold drawers to await their dismemberment. _If they haven't already been_, always comes to mind. We meet Warner in her office, the usual dead bodies laid out on metal slabs. Instruments meant for the dead playing a solemn tune as they set about their work, slicing and dicing. A shiver passes over me, but my long black coat hides it, fortunately. Wouldn't want the M.E. to see a seasoned detective shuddering at the sight of stiffs.

"Detectives," she acknowledges.

"You said you got something for us."

"See the marks around her neck?" Warner starts in and points to the hand marks around Elaina Simnowski's neck.

"Yeah, so, she died of strangulation." No big news there. Pretty obvious.

"Nope. She didn't."

"Well, what then?"

"Heart attack. Probably triggered by the rape."

"Could the hold on her neck have weakened her?"

"It prevented her from getting enough oxygen which definitely would have worsened the heart attack, yes."

"Great." I turn and walk towards the door, not wanting to hear how someone raped an old woman. I can handle a lot of things, but that always makes me shudder. That and the children.

"Thanks," I hear Fin mutter and he joins me on my walk out of there and back towards the car. I know he won't ask why I left; it's the same reason he left. We didn't need to hear anymore. We didn't need to know anymore.

Or maybe we did. "Wait a minute." Before he can stop me or ask where I'm going I walk back in all the way back to Warner's office. "Can you tell the size of the guy from the impressions on the neck?" I ask her back.

She turns around, surprised to find me back in here, but she hides it well. "Yes. Get me a suspect and I could tell you whether or not he's your guy."

I nod. "And the knife?"

"Smooth-edged."

I nod again. "Thanks." I walk quickly back to the car, knowing Fin will be wondering what the hell I just did.

"What was that?" he asks, sure enough, when I climb into the car.

"Elaina Simnowski had hand prints around her neck from the guy choking her. Warner said that if we have a suspect, she can match his hand prints to the ones on Elaina's neck."

"Let's get Warrington."

"Road trip, Doug!" I say loudly as Fin and I move into the room, startling him from his sleep.

"What the... where we goin'?"

"You'll see."

"Look, can I just go home? I've been here for hours."

"Well, you could, but see, then you wouldn't be able to clear yourself now."

"But I didn't do nothin'!"

"I told you before, Doug. That means you did something." I look at him knowingly over the top of my glasses.

"What do I gotta do?"

"Just come with us. Our M.E.'s gonna see the size of your hands."

"That's it? No blood or nothin'?"

"Nope. So you wanna clear yourself or not?"

"I'm comin', are you nuts?" He walks ahead of us and Fin looks at me funny as we leave. Probably thinking I _am_ a nut. Figures.

"That was a complete waste of the day," I sigh as I fall into my chair again. I glance at my watch. After eight already. Nothing more we can do today. Stabler will be in tomorrow, another man to work on this with. I'm sure Fin will fill him in, as I'm still with Benson. Or, I'll still be with Benson. To think, not forty-eight hours ago, I would have been the happiest man alive to get to work a case with her. Just the feeling of being near her and working with her and hauling in some perv's ass with her. But today, nosiree. I'd rather be working with Fin, skinny ass comments and all.

"Not completely."

"Okay, so we know the guy might be after the families of those in the military. Great lead. There's gotta be thousands of people who are against the War in Iraq and the Vietnam War. Hell, I am."

"Yeah, but you didn't do it."

"So that's one less person who could've done it. There are million people in this city. You want to ask every one of them whether or not they support the war?"

"Warner said if we get a suspect, she could match the hand prints," Fin says reasonably.

"_If_ we get a suspect."

"I'm going home," Fin says, abruptly ending the debate. "I got better things to do than argue with you."

"Could you drop me off at my place?" I ask, deciding it best to leave the topic alone, at least until tomorrow.

"When are you going to get your damned car fixed?"

"I drove in this morning, but it broke down again," I say lamely.

"What the hell am I gonna do with you?"

"Drive me home?" I say hopefully. Even though he glares at me, I grab my coat and smile sweetly at him as Benson comes out down the stairs.

"Where're you guys going?" She has a file in her hand.

"Home."

"Is it that time already?" She glances at her watch. "Wait up and I'll go down with you."

She gets to her desk and Fin and I stand there, almost like guards, I think. Guards of the unguardable. She throws on her coat, grabs a few things off her desk and out of her locker. Adjusting her scarf, she looks at us. "Ready."

We all head to the elevator, talking about what we're going to do. The general reply is 'nothing.' It is a Sunday night, after all. What is there to do? Sleep, I immediately think. I can't go as long as when I was younger. Burning the midnight oil usually means sleeping away the day or just barely making it through. Yeah, _Hello, I'm John Munch, 58 and I feel like I'm seventy something._ Wonderful. _Oh, and did I mention I'm alone and have been divorced... what was it... four times. Yep, still can't get a woman._

Pathetic.

Fin and I bid Benson a good night and I follow him to his car, parked in the opposite direction. He drives me home in silence and I thank him when we get to my building.

"Yeah, yeah." He waves it off. "You need a ride tomorrow?"

"Yes, please," I reply mockingly and he glares at me again before pulling away. I trudge up the front stairs and ride the elevator up to my floor, leaning on the wall the whole way. I put the key in the lock and turn, hearing the wonderful click as it opens. Not as satisfying as the click of handcuffs as they slide shut, but now, it's better. I throw my coat and keys unceremoniously on the couch and walk into my bedroom, shedding clothes and throwing them on a chair. I quickly pull on pants and a t-shirt before I can get too cold. Having eaten at the station house, I go into the bathroom and brush my teeth and then it's to bed. Wonderful, glorious, soft bed.

_All you could hear were the sounds of gunfire. That and the screams of the wounded. Screaming for anyone, on their side that is, to help them. To make the pain stop. To make the sounds stop. To make the bullets stop flying._

_David was lying there. Just lying there and it scared the shit out of me. Almost literally. I'd never seen him so still, so... life less. He was always moving and now... now death was about to creep in. He couldn't scream anymore. I ignored the bullets flying overhead, either that or I just didn't notice them. All that mattered was that David was dying before me._

_I gathered him in my arms. Just took his head in my arms and cradled it. I didn't want him to leave me alone is this awful place. His mouth was moving but nothing came out. No sounds, just moving his mouth._

_"What is it, David? C'mon, tell me." I had already called for a medic, but they were busy, if not among the wounded._

_"T... tell Mary..." I leaned closer, my ear to his mouth. "I love her."_

_I shook my head, tears in my eyes, battle raging around us. All that mattered right now was him. "They're goin' to come. They're gonna fix you up. Gonna patch you right up. You're gonna tell her yourself." I knew he was going to die, but I couldn't let him go. I couldn't let him._

_"I'm goin' home, Johnny. I'm goin' home."_

_"That's right, Dave. They're going to make you better and then... no. No!" His grip on my hand suddenly relaxed and I held on tighter, even though he could no longer feel it. "No... David." I hung my head for a moment, asking God why he had done this. Why had he taken David? Why? "Why, God? Why?" I was screaming at the sky now, head upturned, eyes closed. "Why, God? Why?"_

_I gently set David's head down on the blood stained mud beneath us, picked up my gun from where I had dropped it and started shooting. Shooting and running. It was all I knew how to do. Run. Shoot. Shoot. Run. Bullets flew past, but somehow, they didn't hit me. I watched those damned Viet Cong fall and I was glad they fell. I was glad they were screaming. Then, I was glad they were silent. Dead silent._

I wake with a start, sitting up straight in bed despite the tangle of blankets around my body, expecting to hear bullets and the sudden blasts of artillery. But it's silent. That scares me as much as the gun shots would have. The silence of the dead. Those to be sent home in boxes. Those whose parents, whose wives, whose children, whose siblings would receive those letters. Those letters saying that the loss of your son, the loss of your husband, etc, etc, is a great and terrible loss. But to remember he died fighting for his country. He died fighting for freedom.

I run my fingers through my hair. My sweaty hair. _God, do I hate sweaty hair. Reminds me of... no, I'm not going back there. I'm not going back._

Shower. Yes, a shower sounds good. I get up, disentangling myself from the sheets. I throw them angrily on the bed, hating them for trying to suffocate me. The tile is cold beneath my bare feet as I walk into my bathroom. I shed my night clothes and throw them on the toilet, making sure the cover is down first. Always an important thing to check for. After making sure the water is the right temperature, in other words, hot, I step in and let it pound my skin. _It's not rain, it's not rain, it's not rain. It's hot. The rain was always cold, stinging our sweating skin and then drenching us to the bone and making us shiver. It's not rain._

_John, you're doing it again. Right, right... Don't go there!_

The water beats a steady tattoo on my skin as I wash my hair, feeling the water run down my scalp and over my face. Just what I needed, I think as I shut the water off and step out, wrapping a towel around me. Always works. _Yeah, unless the water's cold. Unless the water's rain._

_But it isn't rain,_ I say again. _It isn't and it never will be. Never again. And never again will I see a jungle full of steam from the rain and never again will I be told to go into it, to shoot and kill and maybe die. _Of course, they never told us to die. But they mind as well have by telling us to into those forests. By sending us over to that damned country in the first place. Piece of crap government.

_It's over, John. It's over, so just forget it. It's been goddamned forty years. I'm sure you can forget it by now._

But I can't. I don't think I ever will either.


	5. Nights I Can't Remember

A/N: More insight as to Munch's history directly after Vietnam. Thank you to boredsvunut for beta-ing and special dedication to Ink Cat and detectivesweetheart. Oh, and the song doesn't belong to me, but to Toby Keith. The man rocks, seriously.

**Chapter 5: Nights I Can't Remember, Friends I'll Never Forget**

_He said the years seem to roll on faster_

_Than they did back when we were kids_

_Then, we need us a break from the grindstone_

_That's exactly what we did_

_We put in a phone call to Sonny_

_Then we stayed out all night long_

_We drank a few cold ones, then told a few old ones_

_And sang another verse to the song_

_Now what? Sit around and wait for another case or turn on the TV and face the possibility of coming upon another Vietnam movie?_ Either one is torture and I collapse on the couch, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell I'm going to do. I'd thought I'd long ago forgotten that war. Forgotten the screams. Forgotten the silence. Forgotten David.

But no. I remember it, all of it. I tried so hard to forget and now this damn case brought it all back. Danny, David, me. Others whose names I can't really remember. Others whose names I tried not to learn because chances were, either he or I would be dead within the week. Only a few in my original company made it back alive, in one piece. Me and Danny and I think maybe two or three other guys. Out of fifty or so men.

And now... now I can't even sleep because of it. When I first came back, it was real bad then. Every night. I didn't sleep decently for months. I'd wake up screaming, bodies mangled in my head, burnt and torn up. Bullet-ridden bodies. Burnt bodies. Burnt so bad you couldn't tell who it was. Men. Tired, unshaven, covered in dirt and mud and blood. Sometimes their own, sometimes others. David. Dying in my arms. Those last words he said to me. Echoing in the night as a mere whisper, but sounding as loud as the explosions.

I'd had to tell Mary when I came back. David's parents didn't want to tell her so they lay the burden on me. I cried when I told her. Tears ran down my finally clean, shaved face. My scarred face. I told her he loved her. Told her that he had died fighting. I couldn't tell her what I saw though. Couldn't tell her what Dave saw. Couldn't tell her what I had done afterwards. Most of the afterwards was a blur; all I remembered were bodies falling before me and around me. She thanked me, teary eyed and heart broken and I left, my hat in hand. I had gone straight to her house, in uniform and all. She must've thought I was David at first, for when I knocked on her door, I was looking at the ground, wondering how I was going to tell my best friend's girl that he was dead. That he had died in my arms.

Of course, after that, I finally went to college. I can't really remember what I studied, just that I don't think I finished. I couldn't. And I protested the war. I remember that too. I remember marching in Washington, with hundreds, thousands of others. I wasn't the only veteran there either. There were others. Others who had seen their friends die. Others who had woken in the middle of the night, screaming. Others who though it was the government's fault. The government's fault that we were sent to Vietnam. The government's fault we were scarred and broken and hurt and dead and haunted. Haunted beyond belief.

But they never really understood. They never really understood because they never went into the jungle in the middle of the rain and as the jungle steamed up, shot the enemy while watching their friends die around them. They never felt the hot blood of their friends soak their hands. Never heard the helicopters. Never saw the sights we endured 24/7. They didn't get it and they never would. The government would never understand why soldiers came back, scarred beneath the skin. They were oblivious to the pain they caused. And they sent young men over to fight their war. Young men like me. Like Danny. Like David.

_Damn government,_ I think as I start to drift back towards sleep. _Goddamned government._

SVU

I wake a few hours later, to another nightmare. To another bad dream. Faces looming out of the dark of my small living room make me jump up and hit the light switch, hard. The faces disappear, as does my vision. I blink, shutting my eyes for a few moments so as to readjust. When I open my eyes, I can see better and I make my way back to the couch, sitting down. _Maybe TV _is_ the answer,_ I wonder sleepily. Looking at the clock, it's already four in the morning. Can't really get too much more sleep. _Damn it._

I turn on the TV and start flipping channels. I come across some stupid show and for some reason keep watching even though it's some stupid sitcom rerun. Something stays my hand, until a man and a woman on the show start fighting. She asks why he's doing this to her and he turns around and says loudly, "Because I love you!" and he starts to walk away. As he opens the door, she calls out, "John, wait."

My mind instantly flashes on the other night and I begin flipping channels like a mad man, trying to get away from it. That thing that I wanted. For her to have stopped me. For her to just call my name, anything. Something that would have made me turn around and looked at her. Something that would have made me walk back to her. Anything.

_But life isn't as easy as TV,_ a voice tells me and I tell it to shut up. I hate when the dumb little voice is right. I hate when it actually tells me the truth. Even when everything in me wants to prove it wrong, I know in the end, it'll be right._ That's called your conscience, John. Repeat after me, conscience. Conscience._

_And it sucks,_ I add. _It sucks._

I finally find a neutral channel and start watching infomercials. Those are safe, right? Right. I think I doze off because the sudden ring of my doorbell startles me. I glance at the clock as I head for the little control panel thing and notice it's a little after six thirty. At least I got some more rest, I try to cheer myself up with. Yeah, but now for Fin.

"Come on up," I say into the speaker, knowing it's him. Soon, he's pounding on my door. All too soon for me to get ready and I open the door with only pants on. "Sorry, I overslept."

He grunts, glares and heads for the fridge without asking and without invitation. I don't mind. It's not like it goes too quickly for me to refill it. I get dressed quickly, having taken a shower already this morning. After I brush my hair and teeth, I straighten my tie and meet Fin in the kitchen, grabbing my coat off the hook. I pull it on and watch as Fin finishes off his drink, puts the glass in the sink and leads the way out. Locking the door on my way out, he looks at me oddly.

"What is it with you lately?" I ask, counting up the number of odd looks the past couple days to equal more than usual.

"What is it with _you_?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Forget it."

"No, tell me what you think is wrong," I persist as we get on the elevator.

"I said _forget it_. Just drop it, arright?" _For the one who wants to know what's going on he sure clams up quick,_ I think, but keep it to myself as we climb into the car.

"All right," I finally say. "I'll drop it." This receives another odd look. He probably doesn't believe I'm actually dropping it. But he and I both know I'll bring it up later at some obscure time. Perhaps when he isn't suspecting it or perhaps when he is. I'll figure it out when the time comes.

"Morning," Benson says as we walk into the squad room.

"Morning." I try to sound cheerful, but remnants of last night's dream won't let me be. I sit down at my desk, having already hung my coat on the rack. "Anything new?"

"Nope. And there weren't any more rapes matching ours last night."

"He probably knows we're looking for him. Decided not to give us any more evidence." I get up and start to make my tea, not wanting to face the coffee, even if it is warm.

"He didn't give us any to begin with," Fin says tiredly, but with a hint of anger in it.

"Hand prints around Elaina Simnowski's neck. And we know he uses a straight edged knife," I say, dipping the tea bag in and out of the hot water a few times before squeezing any liquid stuck in the bag out.

"Yeah, but no one saw him and he used a condom," Fin argues as I pour some milk in and then some sugar.

"Better than nothing." I sit down again, and begin to stir my drink.

"Fin, did you check to see if any other rapes matched our description?" Benson asks.

"Yeah, nothin'. And I tried parts of the crimes, but still, nothin'." He looks somewhat dejected and I know the feeling. Granted, it's only two days into the case, but when you don't get any hits in the system, it bothers you because you know there's a new guy out there. A new threat and not only does it mean more danger, it means more work, more pressure.

"So what now?" I ask no one in particular when Elliot walks in. He looks tired. "Kids keep you up?"

"No, I just couldn't sleep." He hangs his coat up and goes over to his locker while the rest of us look at each other behind his back. We know he hates that Kathy only lets him see the kids sometimes, but we never mention it. Not to him, and generally not amongst ourselves. Fin mentioned once, when we were joking around, that I should talk to Elliot, considering I was the expert on divorce. _And,_ thinking about Fin, _where is he? He was just sitting across from me? Man, I need a leash for him._

"Whadda we got?" Elliot asks as he sits down, a cup of coffee in his hands and trying to sound happy, or at least awake.

Benson looks up from the file on her desk to answer. "Three victims. Guy grabs them from behind, presses a knife against their neck, forces them into their apartment and rapes them."

"Descriptions or anything?"

"No, he wore a ski mask. One victim's dead, the other two are in the hospital."

_Ah, there's Fin_. When I launch my sneak attack later I'll have to ask him where he was. "He uses a condom, too," Fin adds.

I stay silent, asking myself why couldn't Elliot have been free this weekend? Why couldn't he have gone and dealt with the victims, dealt with the uniforms? Why couldn't he be Benson's partner on this one? Why couldn't he be Olivia's partner on this one? Because he hurt her. Because he's breaking Olivia, and Benson is all the rest of us have. He doesn't know it though. Doesn't know that the silence, the anger, is breaking her. I see it, Fin probably does too, but Elliot, nope. The one that matters doesn't see it. And I'm left to hold her and be crazy enough to say that I care for her more than I should. That I care for her more than he does. More than her own partner, her best friend.

But I know... I know he's scared. I know he doesn't have control and I know it scares him. I see it in those moments when he's caught staring into space, a lost expression on his face. As if his world is collapsing around his sides, and he suddenly can't do anything. He can't see a suspect for what he sees as a crime. He might blame Kathy, or the Job or himself. That I don't know, but what I do know is that he can pull himself back up. As crushing a blow as this seems, he can do it. He has Benson. Olivia, he doesn't have her anymore, not really, but Benson he has. Olivia might be better, but Olivia can't trust him anymore.

Elliot and Olivia have ceased to be them. They're Stabler and Benson now, and for some reason, Munch got stuck in between them. John got stuck in between them. I should've stayed out of it. I should've stayed out of it and never opened my big mouth. They're right, I talk too much. I should shut up. I really should.

"Can I help you, sir?" Stabler's voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn to face the door.

"Is there a Captain Cragen here?"

"Yes, right this way, sir." Stabler leads the man to Cragen's office and I follow with my eyes.

"Nice suit," Fin comments when they are safely tucked into Cragen's office.

"Who is it?" I ask Stabler as he returns to his desk.

"Robert Warrington." He picks up a file off his desk.

I lean back in my chair, hands comfortably on the arms. "Looks like Doug told daddy."

This catches Stabler's attention and he turns away from his file. "Doug who?"

"Warrington. The guy you just walked into Cragen's office is his father. Doug was a suspect yesterday until his hand prints ruled him out," I inform him. Before he can ask any questions I add, "His fingerprints were found in Elaina Simnowski's apartment. She's our dead vic."

He makes a small sound of acknowledgement and turns back to his file. I wonder why he isn't asking any questions and making sure he knows all the details, but then Robert Warrington walks out of Cragen's office and effectively derails that train of thought and throws me onto another. Warrington's face is calm, though there is a definite hint of anger in his eyes. He walks past us all, Cragen following, hands in his pockets and stops next to my desk as we all watch Warrington leave, brushing past a uniform.

"He doesn't seem too happy," I comment.

"He was wondering why we were questioning his son. Would you be happy?" Cragen retorts. Before I can fire back, he points at me. "Can I see you for a minute, John?"

I shrug. _What choice do I really have?_ Exactly. I follow him back into his office and he gestures me to sit down. "What's up?" Cragen sits down too, looking at me sadly, or perhaps it's how he's always looked at me, I've never noticed.

"Benson told me yesterday that you knew Elaina Simnowski's husband. Said you served with him in Vietnam."

_How to handle this? How to brush it off as nothing when in reality, I can't stop thinking about it? _"Yeah, her daughter Cheryl showed us a picture."

"Benson also said Cheryl recognized you in the photo."

"Where are you going with this Cap?" I have to ask straight out. I mean, I know where it's probably going to lead, but this dancing around it isn't helping any.

"You okay with this?"

"I'm fine," I respond and add, upon seeing the disbelieving look on his face, "really. I am. Just a shock to find the family of a buddy from forty years ago."

"Fin said you couldn't sleep last night. Are you sure you're okay?"

_Why that conniving little--_"Yeah, Cap, I'm sure. Just had a rough night is all."

"All right, but you tell me if anything's wrong, I'll give you a couple days, got it?"

"Got it, Cap." We look at each other for a few moments. "We done?"

"Yeah, we're done." He sounds sad and again I wonder if he always sounds like that. As I leave, I try to plot my revenge against Fin, but nothing comes to mind. I just don't have the heart to torture him today. Damn, I'm getting soft. Fin looks at me as I sit back down at my desk, guilt written all over his face. I smile, not wanting to yell at him or make a fuss over it. _He just wanted to help,_ I tell myself over and over again. _He didn't want to get me in trouble, he was just worried._ And rightly so, considering the dreams I had last night. Considering the memories that are on constant replay in my head since I saw that picture.

"Hey, you all right?" Fin asks quietly and I'm surprised that he's even saying anything. Normally, he'd just look at his desk, pretending he hadn't betrayed me. Pretending I wasn't there. And to tell the truth, it bothers me more than if he had sat there ignoring me.

"Yeah, I'm all right." Sarcasm won't work for this. Sarcasm won't get me through this. Ouch, reality hurts.

He nods, looking me over once as if to make sure I really am all right then goes back to his work. Fine by me, as long as I'm left alone.

Maybe I will take that day off, I think suddenly. Maybe getting away for a day, getting my thoughts together, would help. I look around the squad room, taking in all the sounds and sights. Getting away from all this noise and pain sounds like a great idea. Then my eyes land on Benson. I could get away from her. Let her fly solo for a day. Let her not see me for a day. Let her forget me for a day. Sounds nice. And in turn, I could forget about her, at least for a day. Go without her smile, her eyes, for a day. It would do me good. But as I look at Cragen's door, I know that would be giving in. That would be ceding everything I just fought for in there. Looks like I'm stuck, as usual.

Yeah, stuck between Olivia Benson and Elliot Stabler. And it'll take the jaws of life to pry me out.

Too bad I don't have the strength.


	6. Letters From Home

A/N: Special thanks to boredsvunut and for DS and Ink Cat, as well as bored. You guys are great. Chapter title courtesy of John Michael Montgomery.

**Chapter 6: Letters From Home**

_I hold it up and show my buddies_

_Like we ain't scared and our boots ain't muddy_

_But no one laughs 'cause there ain't nothing funny_

_When a soldier cries, and I just wipe my eyes_

_I fold it up and put it in my shirt_

_Pick up my gun and get back to work_

_And it keeps me drivin' on, waitin' on_

_Letters from home_

SVU

_Dear Mom,_

_We went out Tuesday night for a short reconnaissance mission that turned into an awful firefight. We didn't get back to back until early Thursday morning. They killed David. He died in my arms. To think, to even fathom your friend dying beside you is unheard, unthought of back home. But here..._

_Some new boys were assigned to our company. I didn't find out their first names. I realize now how I must have looked when I first got here. Clean, to begin with. I understand now the jokes the others made when I first got here, but I didn't join in when these new boys came. They'll learn soon enough it isn't like playing soldiers in their backyards with sticks for guns and pots as helmets. This is real. Dear God is it real._

_One more month._

_Your loving son,_

_John_

_I wiped the lingering tears from my eyes, ignoring the ones that had fallen on the paper, sliding the letter into a pre-addressed envelope. Little did I know that my mother would do the same thing back home when she sent a reply._

I wake suddenly, picturing my mother on the dark wall opposite me. How many years has it been? How many years since my brother and I buried her? Too many, the answer comes back as I throw the blankets away from me. I curl my toes on the carpet, contemplating what to do now. Watch TV or... or what? I've already run out of things to do after three sleepless nights. A book, perhaps? Perhaps.

I fumble for a moment with my bedside lamp, trying to find the switch thing underneath the shade. Finally, my fingers hit it and as light fills the room, I think of how ironic it is that I need a light to find the switch for the lamp. Weird. I sit on the edge of the bed, my arms pressing down into the mattress as if I were about to get up, staring at the floor between my feet. Every aspect of my dream is burning in my mind. I can even feel the sting of tears, same as that day as I wrote that letter. I reach up and touch my face, getting angry as I feel real tears sliding down. I'll have trouble sleeping, I'll have nightmares, I'll watch TV in the middle of the night, but I won't cry. I've had enough of it. Do you hear me? Enough!

I grab my glasses off the table beside my bed and slide them on, somewhat glad to see the world clearly. At least it will be harder to create images out of blurry objects. Now, I'll have to make do with the shadows, something that's never as hard as it should be. Something that my mind both likes and hates to do. _Or perhaps it's my heart that hates it._ _Move, John. Stop thinking and move._

That's the only way to stop it. Stop the thoughts that threaten to destroy me. The ones that threaten to make me a shell of a person, though I must say, they've gotten pretty far even with trying to block them out. Too far. And no matter how hard I tried, and still try, there are always the ones that get through. The memories, the nightmares that seep through the cracks in my defenses. That climb the walls I've built up around my heart. Around my soul. Sometimes, they're so bad, so horrible, that I'm amazed that I can function normally the next day. Function normally so as no one will raise any questions. Especially my partner.

I look at the bookshelf before me, trying to find something I haven't read, at least in a while. That's when I remember the book on the small table beside the couch. Hopefully a conspiracy book will help. Picking up UFOs, JFK, and Elvis, I sit down on the couch with a sigh, laying back against the pillows and propping my feet on the other end. Getting comfortable, I flip through the pages until I find my place, "Who's Who Among the Lesser Potential Assasins." So far it's a good book, but for now I hope it's dull enough to put me to sleep. A dreamless sleep.

SVU

"That guy looks like you." Fin's voice startles me awake.

"Wha?"

"The guy on that book. He looks like you," he says again.

"I heard what you said. Asking 'what' was just a reflex. As in, what are you doing in my apartment?" I sit up and stretch, wondering if I should kick him in the process.

"You overslept again." He looks me over once, then says, "Go get dressed, take a shower. I'll tell Cragen we hit traffic."

I nod and he knows it's in thanks. As I stand up, I realize he's already got a glass of juice in his hand, and I shake my head, making my way to my room. I hear the TV flip on and the voice of a reporter comes through the closed bathroom door. I shower quickly and dress, knowing that even though he said he'll wait, he won't want to be too late. That's fine with me though. I don't want to be late either and I don't want to be in my apartment anymore. I need some fresh air, though that's a joke in New York. Breathing fresh air here is as likely as Lee Harvey Oswald actually shooting Kennedy.

I come out of the bathroom, pulling my tie a bit and Fin calls, "Ready?"

"Yeah. Could we stop and get a quick breakfast?"

He shuts off the TV and stands, glaring slightly at me. "Do I look like your personal chauffeur?" As I open my mouth to retort, he quickly says, "Don't answer that."

I smile. "Actually, I was going to say you looked more like a taxi cab driver. Chauffeur's too sophisticated a word, don't you think?" I smile evilly, trying not to laugh as he glares some more.

"I'm not an alarm clock either," he growls as he brushes past me for the door. Nothing like an early session of piss-off-Fin. I follow him, making sure all the lights are off and locking the door behind me. He's waiting at the elevator, staring intently at the doors and I'm surprised to find there's no burn marks yet.

"Concentrating?" I ask lightly.

"Yeah. On how your face is gonna look when I get my hands around your neck."

"Ooh, you've got me shakin' in my blue suede shoes now." We step into the elevator and I push the button. I stand, hands in my coat pockets, rocking back and forth on my feet. I have the odd urge to whistle, but I don't. Maybe in the car I can launch my attack against Fin's defenses. Find out what I want to know.

"Where do you wanna go eat?" he asks as we walk out to the car.

"That deli around the corner from the office."

He nods and we buckle up. The radio's already on when Fin starts the car and I reach over to turn it down.

"Hey, that was a good song," he protests.

"What did you mean yesterday when you asked what was up?" I hope being forward is the way to go. But he's like me, and doesn't give up personal info without a fight.

"I told you, nothin'."

"Why did you tell Cap I overslept? You don't even know if I had trouble sleeping."

"I know. And you couldn't sleep last night either."

"Are you a stalker?"

"No, I just know my partner. Sue me for caring!" He's angry, as I knew he would get, but I want to know.

"Yeah, exactly what do you know?" Time to test his so called 'knowledge'.

He sighs and flips the right blinker on. "I don't wanna go there, Munch."

"Too bad, because I want to know why you've been giving me all these funny looks lately? Or have you finally come out of the closet and picked me as the man to fulfill your dreams?"

"You wish, old man!"

"Spill it."

He tears into it, fast and loud, angry at me. "You hate that this job is ripping you to pieces, just like everyone else. You hate that no matter how many jokes you make, it never gets easier. You don't agree with suicide, but somehow you connected with Amy Solwey." He glances at me. "That good enough for ya? I could go on."

I stay silent, staring at Fin and wondering how the hell he sounds like a shrink. "How much time have you been spending around Huang?" A joke. Of course. How fitting.

"Munch!" He's angry again. "I'm your partner, for Chrissakes! You don't think I notice things?"

"Yeah, but I never expected for you to analyze me."

"Simple observations, man." He glances at me again. "You been acting weirder than usual, okay? I just wanted to make sure you ain't gonna do something stupid."

"Do I ever do stupid things?"

"You really want me to answer that?"

"No, not really." I expect him to answer anyway, like I did, but he doesn't. It's moments like these I know he cares. I know he doesn't mean all that crap he says, not really. "So, what about these weird looks you've been shootin' me?"

"Benson."

"What?"

"You and Benson. You around Benson. You freak out whenever she looks at you."

"No I don't."

He looks at me as he parks the car in front of the deli. "Here's your stop."

I sit there a moment more before finally getting out. I go into the warm building and order what I did the other day, minus the coffee. I'll have my tea this morning. Thanking the woman at the counter, I grab my bag and head outside, trying to get into the heat filled car before a cold wind comes along.

"So how exactly do I 'freak out'?" I continue as if I hadn't stepped out.

"You do this weird jumpy twitch thing. I don't know how to explain it. And whenever you gotta go someplace with her, you're face gets this look like you're gonna be sick."

"I do?"

"Didn't I just say that?"

"Technically--"

"Shut up," he interrupts before I can start and we finally get to the station house.

"So, where was the traffic?" I ask as we walk towards the elevator. I know he's got it figured out already, but it doesn't hurt to ask, to remind him we've got a story to tell.

"Where have you two been?"

"Traffic, Cap. Sorry." Luckily, Cragen doesn't ask why and we sit down. Benson and Stabler look at us, knowing better than to believe Fin's lie. I ignore them, trying to get into the mind set of work, though my conversation with Fin is replaying in my head. Especially the part about how I look around Benson. Oh well.

"Anything new?" I ask.

"Huang stopped by, took a look at our case. Gave us a basic profile of our guy."

"And?"

"Said he might try to hurt their family members if he gets the chance," Benson finishes, looking up at me. I hope she isn't remembering the other day in the hospital, but somehow, I know she is.

Without asking any more questions, I flip quickly through the file, finding Maribel Antonio's phone number. I pick up the phone and carefully dial.

"Hello?" comes the small voice of one of her boys.

"This is Detective Munch. Is your mom home?"

"Yeah, hold on a minute." I hear him yell for his mom. Some set of vocal cords the kid's got.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Maribel. It's Detective Munch."

"What happened?" She's worried, I can hear it and it hurts.

"Nothing happened, per se. A psychologist who works with our unit on some cases came up with a profile for your rapist. He thinks the rapist might attack your family if he gets the chance."

"Oh my God," comes the shocked whisper. "What... what should I do?"

"Do you have any relatives that you can stay with for awhile? Outside of the city?"

"My... my mother-in-law lives in Putnam County. Is that good?"

"Perfect." I pause for a moment, wracking my brain for anything else I might tell her to ease her worry. Her pain. Nothing comes to mind. "I'll call you if anything else comes up."

"Thank you, Detective. Goodbye."

"Bye." I hang up the phone and suddenly the squad room exists again. I lean back in my chair, thinking of how wonderful the day is already. _Yeah. Right._

"She okay?" Benson asks.

"Yeah, her mother-in-law lives in Putnam County. She's going to stay with her for a while." I feel oddly detached as I say this. As if my voice isn't mine. Hollow sounding. Alien. To my own ears.

Her eyes linger on me longer than they should and I try to stifle the redness I feel coming to my cheeks. _Not now. Not here. Please._ When I tear my eyes away from her and try to concentrate on my work, I see Fin looking at me knowingly. _Oh, I could just slap him._ But I don't of course. Instead, I get up and set to making my tea. Something to take my mind away. Hopefully.

_Day number four,_ I think as I sit down, hot tea in hand. For some reason, it isn't really about the case anymore. The case is just facts, and except for Maribel and her boys, it's just facts and vics. This case has turned into a nightmare... not about rape victims or murder victims of the past, but Vietnam, and it's really starting to piss me off. When all this extra stuff gets dragged into the case... it really kills a week, you know? All this emotional baggage gets hauled in and that's when it stops really being about catching the guy. It's just about going from one night to the next and hopefully finishing the case so when you go home at the end of it all, you can sleep at night. Until the next one comes along, you can sleep.

SVU

_Dear John,_

_Mom's real worried about you. Especially after that last letter you sent. She's afraid you'll do something stupid or slip up and you won't come home. Or that you'll die. She cries herself to sleep most nights now. I try to do something to help, anything, but she won't be okay until you come home._

_School's doing all right. Me and Jim took a couple of girls to the movies the other night. We're going out again tomorrow for dinner. Nothing fancy, you know. Probably another movie too. I saw David's brother yesterday, but he didn't say anything to me. I think he's mad that I still have you, while he doesn't have a big brother anymore._

_Can't wait until you're home._

_Love,_

_Bernie_

_I read it over again, the first paragraph searing my eyes until I had to close them. This war was hurting my mother. This war, which was changing me and killing my friends, was hurting her. She couldn't sleep. She cried. She wouldn't be the same. Until I got home. Somehow, I knew, as I folded the letter and tucked it into my pocket, she would get better. I wouldn't. Not ever. Somehow, I knew._


	7. Awful Beautiful Life

A/N: Thanks, as always, to boredsvunut. And dedicated, as always to bored, Ink and DS. Folks, this is the last chapter, so enjoy it and review. Please. Oh, and the song is courtesy of Darryl Worley.

**Chapter 7: Awful Beautiful Life**

_I laid in bed that night and thought about the day_

_And how my life is like a rollercoaster ride_

_The ups and downs and craszy turns along the way_

_It'll throw you off if you don't hold on tight_

_You can't really smile until you shed some tears_

_I could die today, or I might live on for years_

_I love this crazy, tragic, sometimes almost magc_

_Awful beautiful life_

"Munch, Benson!" I turn to where Captain is standing in his doorway. "Erikson's boyfriend got home this morning. Go knock on his door."

Benson and I glance at each other before our coats on. It's a slower walk to the elevator than normal, both of us occupied by our own thoughts. Once on the elevator, we tuck scarves in coats, buttoning up against the cold that awaits outside the building. I hold the door open for her and quickly pull on my gloves, climbing into the sedan, passenger side. The ride to Private Eric Bauer's apartment is quiet and I can't decide whether to enjoy it or break it. I decide to enjoy it and we pull up in front of his building far too soon.

I knock on his door. "Who is it?"

"Police, Mr. Bauer. Could we talk with you?"

SVU

The wind tugs at my coat as we climb back into the car. Benson starts it and turns the heat on full blast, though we both know it will take a while to warm up. _Like my heart,_ I think out of the blue and quickly berate myself for thinking about things like that now. We've just finished talking to Carol's boyfriend and it turns out he received some phone calls before he left for Iraq. Threatening phone calls. Once, he dialed star 69 to find out who it was, only to not have anyone pick up.

I take out my cell phone and dial Stabler's number. "It's Munch. We gotta pull Eric Bauer's phone records." I spell out Bauer for him and we hang up.

"He gonna call back?"

"Yeah." Silence for a moment as we sit and let the car warm. "Maribel said she never received any threatening phone calls. And we won't know from Elaina Simnowski anytime soon."

"Maybe Maribel's husband always happened to pick up. And what about Cheryl Simnowski? Maybe she got the calls," Bensons says reasonably.

I shrug. "So, what do you want to do about it?"

"Let's go back to the house and if Elliot calls on the way there, we'll figure it out."

"All right. Let's go." The car's warm now and she eases her way onto the street. We drive down to the corner of the block when my cell phone rings. "Munch... Okay, we'll be there in ten minutes."

"Elliot?" she asks.

I nod. "Got the name of a Jason Cusack."

"All right then." She turns the corner and we're off.

I knock on the door, hoping he's home. I'd hate to have to wait for him, especially if he's our guy. "Jason Cusack! Police!" I hear glass shatter and Benson backs up before kicking down the door. Guns are drawn and we go through the apartment. The bathroom window's broken and I make sure the glass is gone from the frame before climbing through onto the fire escape. I don't see anything and I'm about the go down when I hear movement and he jumps out, a gun in his hand. Before Benson or I can say anything, he fires and I can't help but yell out as pain shoots through me knee, along with the bullet. I fall back against the railing and drop my gun, though it thankfully falls on the landing.

"John!" she yells, but I wave her off as I slide down to the metal grating beneath us.

"Go get him," I tell her through clenched teeth. "I've got my radio, go. Go!" I say more urgently as she hesitates. She clangs down the fire escape and I'm left on my own. No big deal though. Not really, except the last time I got injured, I was in a jungle, not the city. I fumble for my radio. "Ten-thirteen. Officer down," I manage. "I repeat, officer down." I look down at my leg, seeing my black slacks get blacker with blood. Looks different with such a neat little hole piercing my pants instead of having them torn and hanging.

My knee hurts like hell and I wonder when the bus'll get here when I hear the pounding of feet. _I should try to staunch blood flow,_ I think weakly as I slip a little more down the railing and closer to unconsciousness. My eyelids slide close as I try to block out the pain. Just make it stop. I hear someone, Fin probably, yelling my name in the apartment, but I can't yell back. His voice cursing reaches me through the window and he clambers through.

"John, can you hear me?" A light slap to the face. "John!"

I grunt. It's all I'm able to do.

"John, c'mon, hang in there man. The bus is coming. You're gonna be fine."

I don't know how long it took him to get here, but I don't care. I wonder if Benson got the bastard.

"John... hey, stay with me." I open my eyes a little. Just a crack. "That's it. Stay with me."

Cragen leans into view. Maybe through the window. "Hey, John. Bus is on the way. Can you tell me what happened?"

I'm still leaning against the rail on the fire escape and it's starting to dig into my back. My mouth feels awful dry, but I tell him anyway, haltingly and not even in full sentences. "We came in... he went out fire escape... followed him... shot me... Benson kept after him."

"Good job, John. Where?"

"My knee." I see Fin looking at it briefly and hear the wail of sirens as the bus pulls up to the building.

"Any minute now, John. Just hang in there." Cragen leaves my field of vision and I hear muffled voices and then two paramedics come over. They start taking my blood pressure and one cuts through my pant leg. Fin moves to the side and they put a collar on my neck and move me onto a backboard. With practiced ease they lift me up and I'm tempted to pass out. The medics lift me through the window and Cragen and Fin come back into view. They both follow as we move down the stairs. Finally we're out on the sidewalk and I can see all the lights from the bus and the squad cars. I notice the car Benson and I took here before the medics put me on a waiting stretcher and lift me into the bus. Fin climbs in and we start moving almost immediately. It's then that I finally pass out.

SVU

When I wake I'm in one of those horrid hospital gowns and I feel like shit, to put it mildly. There's a nurse in the room and when she sees I'm awake, she smiles before fetching a doctor. I look around the room, noticing it's not as bad as some hospitals I've been to. Quite nice actually, I think as the doctor walks in.

"Nice to see you awake, Detective." He smiles, but there's a sense of horrible news coming.

"Cut to the chase, doc. How bad?"

"Well, the bullet shattered your left knee." Pleasant. No wonder it hurt like hell. "We had to replace it."

"So am I on permanent desk duty or what?"

"You're going to need to be transferred to a rehabilitation center after a few days here. You'll stay there for a week or two, then a few months of physical therapy."

"How long till I can go back to work?" That's all I want to know now. The only thing I'm really thinking about.

"Your knee is going to be stiff and you might have problems bending it fully for quite a while. As long as you do well in rehab and in physical therapy, in a month or so. I'll have to check on you before I clear you though. After that, it's really up to how well you progress."

I sigh. Great. Basically, I'm stuck at a desk for the rest of my career. "What are the chances of never getting back out on the streets?"

"Well, you won't be able to chase anyone." _Like I really run anyway._ "But you'll be able to do just about anything else. I'd say probably what you do now. Very slim chance of you never making it back out."

"Thanks."

I expect him to leave, but he stays standing beside me. "There's something else." Shit, what now? "We found some metal fragments in you knee and removed them. Do you know what they were from?"

"Shrapnel in Vietnam."

He nods, quiet. I wonder if he's going to ask anything or say anything more.

"That all?"

"Yes." He finally leaves and I'm left to wonder about who's sitting in the waiting room. Fin's probably fit to have a hernia and Benson and Stabler might be doing paperwork for the arrest that I hope they made. Cragen'll be there unless the Brass wants to know anything. Maybe the nurse will send them in, or perhaps they haven't left her alone since we got here. I'm suddenly overcome with all these thoughts about the crappy waiting room and I want to roll over, face something other than the ceiling. Fat chance of that happening. Oh well.

SVU

"Hey. How are you doing?"

"Did you get him?" That's all I want to know right now. No more doctors reports. No more case facts. Just that one piece of information. Because I know that if I hear that, leaving won't seem so bad. Going out on a win wouldn't seem so bad.

"Yeah. We got him. He was very happy to know he added another charge to his indictment."

Should I tell her first? Should I tell her that I can't do this anymore? Fin deserves to know first, something tells me, but I want her to know. And now... now just seems right for some inexplicable reason. "Benson...Olivia, I can't be a cop anymore." I look straight at her for the first time in a week. Straight into her eyes as they squint and try to comprehend the thought. _No, not comprehend. Accept._

"Don't say that. A little rehab and you'll be back out there."

"And don't you be stubborn. I'm okay with it. So please, you be okay with it too." _That's some weird English,_ my disassociating brain says.

She shakes her head. "You could ride a desk. Cragen'll help you out. Next year, you'll be back to making collars. I'll help you."

She'll help me? How? How could she spend all that time on me, but when it really matters, let me walk away? "Olivia," I take her hand in mine, "two years until they make me leave. What's the difference if I stay at a desk for those years or do something else? Hey, maybe I'll be some rich prick's butler. Your tea, sir." I fake an English accent as her eyes shine more than normal. _Damnit! Don't cry now! I don't want you to cry. I want you to accept it and move on. Forget me. Forget me and go fall in love with some guy who's at least your age. Some man who'll take care of you and won't be as burden. Some man who won't break your heart. Some man who isn't me. _

"That's not what you want and you know it. You know as well as I do that the only job you've ever loved is _the_ Job. Don't feed me that bull."

She's angry now and all I can do is look from her fiery eyes to the side, trying to make her see without... without really showing her. _Yeah, perfect sense there, John. Bloody perfect._ "Please, don't do this now. I just-" I realize how much I sound like a husband urging his wife _not to start of fight in front of all these people, honey._

She cuts me off. "No, John. You don't do this now. I hate when you get like this. Elliot, Fin, Cragen, me, Casey even... we're all here for you. And you can bet they won't want to hear what I've just heard. We'll fight tooth and nail for you. Don't you dare think that we're going to let you sit at home, or at some rich prick's house waiting for orders."

I knew that she wouldn't take this well. But the sensible part of me says she's right. I guess I knew it all along, but facing retirement is easier than facing this. Facing the fact that, no matter how many times Fin yells at me to get my skinny ass in gear, no matter how many times Elliot yells at me to throw away the empty coffee can, no matter how many times Cragen yells at me to shut up, and no matter how many times I show up at some insane hour at Casey's, they all care. They care whether I stay for another two years or reitre now. They care whether I live or die. _Damn, this is worse then facing some messed up child rapist._

Her warm, soft fingers are suddenly holding my chin lightly as she turns my head to face her. "I love you, John and I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner. I'm sorry I didn't see it that night. But if you can't promise me you'll get back on your feet and at least get a desk job back at the squad, promise me you'll try your hardest. And if you can't at least do that, then you're not the man I thought you were." Her voice is choked up with tears and I know now, in this moment, more than I ever have, that she cares. It's in her eyes, her voice, her touch and I... I can't believe I ever thought there was a moment she _didn't_ care. That I ever thought she let me walk away because she _didn't_ care. She let me walk away because she didn't know what else to do. She was Olivia that night, on that bench, cold and hard. She wasn't Liv and she wasn't Benson. She was Olivia. And she was scared and so was I.

"I promise." I squeeze her hand to emphasize and she gives a small smile.

"I knew you would." And I don't doubt it.

There's a moment of silence, except for the slight beep of machines and the noise from the hallway, but between us, complete, beautiful silence. "What now?" I whisper, hating the fact that it's me breaking the silence.

She shrugs and I grin impishly. "What?"

I grin even more and she leans in and kisses me. A sweet, wonderful kiss. When she pulls away, my smile is gone, but it's understood that it isn't necessarily a bad thing. "Thank you," I whisper and she looks at me funny.

"For what?"

I smile. "You'll see. In time, you'll see."

"I hate when you get cryptic."

All I do is look at her, unable to come up with a wise remark. I'm tired and happy. For the first time in what seems like forever, I'm truly, wholly happy.

Happy...


	8. Epilogue

A/N: The finally written epilogue. This will be the very last chapter, folks. Hope you've enjoyed the ride.

You look at the lights that surround you. Buildings outlined by the lights inside them and around them. Individual lives happening inside each of those windows, oblivious to the windows around them and the lives inside of those. You turn and walk slowly back to the bench, though not entirely by choice. It's been a year since that case and your knee still isn't the same, though the doctor told you it might ever be the same. Cragen got you a desk job and you help out on a lot of the cases, which is a hell of a lot better than being the desk sergeant downstairs. Every morning you walk in and exchange looks with him, never envying him.

You sit down on that bench you sat on a year ago and can still feel her pressed up against you. Feel her gaze boring into you as she removes your glasses. You don't really remember walking away anymore. You've made yourself forget that, and it also helps she walked to you, even if it was a little late. But it doesn't matter now. Hasn't for a year.

Closing your eyes, you let yourself fall away from the world for a while, the sounds of the city becoming part of you until you are a part of them. You don't hear as she comes up to you and sits beside you until you feel her hand sliding into yours. Eyes still closed, you smile and give her hand a squeeze. All the questions that had been attacking you just a year ago as you sat with her are gone now, replaced by different ones. Ones that suddenly seem much more important than those of a year ago were. Now it's questions about the distant future, not the here and now.

Because you're come to accept the here and now as it is. Because the here and now you're happy with, for once. Truly happy. You have another year on the Job before the Department makes you retire, and even then, you could go over to the DA's office, work with their investigative squad. Something like that. But for now, you're still a cop, still a detective, and even though the same kind of cases are dropping on your desk, you're happy. Of course, it's mostly because she's still with you. From that day in the hospital, she's been with you each painful step of the way. And that... that is why you can really smile these days. She's stayed with you.

"Cragen said we can go home."

"Just us?" you say lightly, joking.

You can picture the smile gracing her face. "Elliot, Fin and Julian already left."

"Let me guess, to hit Meloni's?"

"Probably." She falls silent and you continue to picture her with your eyes closed. "Listen, I was thinking-"

"Uh-oh."

She laughs a little and you want to make her laugh more, really laugh. The kind of laugh that makes her sides hurt and steals her breath until she's left gasping for air, yet still you continue to make her laugh, until she's begging you to stop through tears of mirth. You've done it before and you wish you could do it now. "Anyway... I was thinking that maybe we could go out tonight."

You open one eye and look at her. "Really... And while you were thinking, did you think of a place where we might go out?"

She smiles, and you know what it means instantly.

"Oh... out. I gotcha." You open the other eye, too, now. "Out," you mutter. "Interesting." But you make no move to leave, and she makes no move to take you away, of which you are glad. Lifting the hand that holds hers, you look at them, together. With your thumb, you stroke the back of her hand and put it back down on your leg, closing your eyes again.

"You okay?" her soft voice asks after a few minutes.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am." And you are. "You know, it's been a year since we last sat like this. Up here."

She's quiet.

"When you let me leave that night... That whole case was just... I kept flip-flopping between remembering Vietnam and remembering how you let me walk away. When we caught Cusack and I got shot... I was so happy that damned case was over." You pause. "In the hospital... I never though you'd come to me. Never crossed my mind." You pause again, listening to her breathing. "I love you." You open your eyes then and look at her. It's the first time you've said it to her, the first time either of you has said it to the other.

"I love you, too, John."

You squeeze her hand again. "Wanna go out?"

She smiles. "Sure."

She gets up, and you do too, slowly. You follow her as she walks to the door that leads back downstairs. As she opens the door and begins to go inside, you hold out your hand to stop the door while you turn around and look at the bench you were just sitting on.

You haven't let it happen again. You haven't let her walk away again.

"You coming?" she calls.

You smile and turn inside, letting the door slam shut behind you.


End file.
